In Their Garden
by Lady Cailan
Summary: A flowerpot sits on her windowsill and each night a new flower grows.  Hermione uses her memories to cope with life after Draco is affected by a curse gone bad. One shot. Hermione/Draco. Not fluffy.


_This little one-shot was originally written back in October for Live Journal's Interhouse Fest 2011. The whole idea of the fest is to write or draw an original piece featuring two prominent members from two different houses. My prompt was Hermione/Draco and 'a flowerpot sits on her windowsill and each night a new flower grows.' I wasn't sure what I was going to write but in the end this called for something serious and even a bit tragic. So that's what I went with. I want to thank my beta, Strangegibbon who is an amazing talent. Let me know what you all think._

_LCailan_

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><p><strong>IN THEIR GARDEN<strong>

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><p><em>God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December. - J. M. Barrie<em>

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><p>A flowerpot sits on her window and each night a new flower grows. It is a reminder to her, that so long as there is life, there is hope. Each day, she gets up and pretends like she is living the life she wants, and she needs to remind herself that as long as she lives, she will not give up.<p>

She stands alone in the room and watches him, brown eyes wide, reflecting a strange mixture of curiosity and longing. Her chestnut curls are even more vivid against a face that has long ago lost most of its color.

In spite of the constant hum of humanity beyond the doors of the room - the sound of footsteps, the rattle of dishes, and the whisper of voices - she seems unaffected by the silence of each and every moment she spends here. Her breathing is light, and for a moment she is as still as Death, but then she moves, stepping closer, towards him. He sits near the window, gazing down at a single flower, the one she brings him each day.

For a moment, all is still again, then he moves and she takes a breath and holds it. It is like this always, a flare of hope in her weary heart, which ignites, sputters and then dies, leaving the same blackness of despair.

She exhales, and with her breath the room around her disappears, and she is in their garden, the sun beating down on her brightly. She welcomes the warmth, opens her arms and lifts her face, reveling in it. She relishes the light; she wants to embrace it, for it gives her hope. Her next breath is deep and scented with the flowers, the trees around her. It is a fresh, light song of a new spring and it washes over her, bringing calm. The sunlight bathes her in joyous rays, as it stirs the heart-shaped leaves around her, but the cruel breeze whispers its dark reminder.

_Draco, will you stay? Here, will you stay? _

Her eyes drop reluctantly to the garden around her, and her lips whisper the question once more.

_Will you stay?_

She remembers the sights and sounds of that other place, the hospital – St. Mungo's. She knows the Healers there, and she knows their constant vigilance, hears their sympathetic murmurs when they check on him. She can recall the taste of bitter coffee. She knows the feeling of the cotton sheets on the bed where she sleeps – fifth floor, visitor's room, and third door from the left of the stairs.

But, what she recalls the most is the way he eats his morning oatmeal, when he can. The way he sometimes smiles at her when he's having a particularly good day. And the fact that the flower she brings him each morning seems to fascinate him.

In those moments, she almost believes that he can remember, and then, not even the brightest sun matches the warmth she feels from his smile.

Here, in their garden, she sees him. He is reclining under the glorious green canopy of leaves, turned away from her, hiding from the sun, the warmth that she so desperately craves. She sees that he's thinner now, always a bit thinner than the last time she has seen him. But that is nothing, because she knows she grows thinner, too.

She wants to call out to him, to make her presence known, but she knows she won't. Just as she must stay in the light, he has his reasons to stay in the shadows, and some things cannot be changed.

The breeze ruffles her hair, and it whispers the same, cruel reminder.

_He will not stay, not this time._

As she gazes at the man in the distance, she ponders on the past, on why she comes to this place, and how that other place – the real world - has changed so much in the passing years. So many things are different; indeed, even she is a new person now. The great challenge of life is to know when and how to pick up the shattered pieces and move on. And she thinks she must do that.

But, she wants to stay. She wants to be with him, for if he cannot move forward, how can she?

The others have, she knows. There have been weddings, and babies, and jobs. She feels joy for the others, and she wishes them all the best, meaning each and every word she has ever spoken. She thinks it strange, however, that amidst all the changes in the new world, her yearning for him has remained the same.

In all her romances, the feelings have passed, changing like the seasons, leaving behind only faint touches of fondness, light brush strokes on the canvas of her life. But it has never taken this long, she has realized. She has given it years, yet, still something keeps her rooted in time, unable to move forward.

In the other – real – world, before the curse backfired, he had told her that she would always have a part of him. At the time it had seemed overly melodramatic but standing in their garden, watching him from afar, she ponders his words. She wonders if perhaps it is some sort of spell that keeps her coming here, time and time again even though he never acknowledges her presence.

She smiles wryly, letting her fingers idly play along the green leaves, and dip into the sparkling waters that run a path between them, nearest to his tree. She knows now, she was never certain of the idea of a soul mate, even though, he was. The idea amuses her, and she has spent endless moments pondering on the possibility that she has known him in other places, in other lifetimes. She doesn't like to think too much on that though, it frightens her, this idea of a soul mate.

One thing he was right about, that she had laughed off in the beginning, but is now certain of, is that they have a connection. Too many years have passed, and of the fact that he is still with her, and she feels him always, can only be a testament to his truth, the truth he knows but one she does not want to believe.

In their garden, where her fragrant flowers sing their scented songs, and green, heart- shaped leaves float on the crisp, sun-kissed air, she calls out to him. He turns and answers her with a glare, the same glare she had long ago fallen in love with though it is subtle, like everything else about him. Moving with more grace than any man has a right to, he turns, stands and then steps blinking, into the light. The shadows dance along his angular face, and the sun bathes him, making his hair shine brilliantly.

He speaks, and his voice is more musical, more singularly beautiful than any of her surroundings.

"Are you calling me?"

Then she sees he has recognized her, his glare fades, replaced by a beatific smile which she cannot help but return. It is that smile which will keep her going, she knows. She needs his smile, just as she needs the air she breathes.

"Are you trying to get through?" He hesitates at the crest of the emerald hillside. "I've seen your face in so many strange places."

She watches him, her hands reaching out in a gesture of supplication, and he moves towards her, closing the distance between them easily. If only it was this easy in the other world – her real world.

"And when I do, it's a reminder that you're there. You're always there, aren't you?"

His eyes are clear, silver pools of knowledge, of recognition, and they bring tears to her own eyes as she wraps her arms around his waist, unable to speak. In this moment, she wonders if there are any words to express her heart.

"My heart stops sometimes," he whispers. "And, I have to remember to breathe in…and breathe out."

She feels him then, his even breathing. In and out.

Around them, the eternal flowers whisper their songs, bringing them so close together it is impossible to tell where he ends and she begins. It is these flowers that grow on her windowsill and she hopes always that they will help him remember.

He holds her and she clings tightly. In his arms, she can forget that he might not stay. Perhaps, this time, he will.

All too soon, she is back in the world of linoleum floors and the squeak of the Healer's shoes, as they push the rickety carts up and down the hallway outside of his room in the long-term residents' ward. It is now the real world, and she is back in St. Mungo's, fourth floor, spell damage.

She stands, just as she has before, in the center of his room, watching him as he stares back at her. He holds her flower. She eyes him in breathless anticipation.

"Draco? Will you stay this time?"

Her whispered plea is one of trepidation, and she dares not hope that this time, things will be different. And yet, she hopes, oh, Merlin, how she _hopes_.

"Hermione."

Her name on his lips will forever be the sweetest thing she ever hears. His eyes are clear, focused on her. She reaches forward, moving to close the distance between them in this world, touching him, her fingers trembling as they lace through his.

"Draco."

For a moment, all is right again in this world. For a moment the past ten years of waiting and hoping no longer matter, because he is with her now, here, and not just in their garden. Then his eyes flicker, his lips quiver into a sad, uncertain smile.

His eyes cloud over, and the only sound in the room is her choked sob as she realizes the truth. The cruel breeze coming from the window he has opened whispers its reminder.

_He cannot stay._

He watches her, a plethora of emotions washing over him. She is there, always, but he does not know her, only that he has seen her in so many strange places.

But, in his garden, she is smiling, and she is his Hermione. There, she holds him, and she feels right, soft, and perfect in his arms.

_Stay, this time, Draco. Stay. _

A flowerpot sits on his window and each night a new flower grows.

The petals are velvet and blooming with color, and when he gazes on it, he sees her. She begs him to stay.

And, surrounded by the eternal garden of her hopes and dreams, he does.

_Fin_


End file.
